


Dirt, Death and Dildoes

by Bunnywest, DiscontentedWinter, Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Politics, Crack Treated Seriously, Four Seasons Total Landscaping AU, Gerard Argent gets what's coming to him, Getting Together, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27553225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/pseuds/DiscontentedWinter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: Gerard Argent's presidential campaign is caught between a cock and a charred place.Stiles and Allison are to blame.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 253
Kudos: 1233





	Dirt, Death and Dildoes

**Author's Note:**

> TwistedDiscoBunny strikes again! Hope you all enjoy, and have a great weekend!

In her defense, she was drunk. Anyone who’d had to put up with Gerard Argent’s bullshit during the campaign would understand, because sometimes drinking yourself stupid is the only way to cope with him. The problem is not that she got drunk off her ass. The problem is that no one took away her phone, so there was nothing to stop her calling Stiles, who is a terrible influence on par with Allison herself, because neither of them knows when to stop and they both have the same terrible sense of humour, even though she hides it better. 

Which is why she’s here, shivering between piles of dirt and peat moss at the asscrack of dawn, plastering signs reading “Argent-Harris 2020” and “Trust the Silver Lining” over the garage door of Stiles’s business instead of curled up in her bed, where she can always feel her toes. Before she can work up a proper grump about it, though, the bad influence himself shuffles over, annoyingly chipper for this early on a cold November morning. 

He makes up for it by tucking her under his arm and pressing hot coffee into her hands, though, so she guesses she’ll have to keep him. She sips the coffee and makes an appreciative noise as she makes him hold her up because fuck it, he’s _warm_. 

She rests her head on his shoulder for a moment, and feels his chuckle vibrate under her cheek. “C’mon, Allie-cat, you know as much as I love snuggles, you don’t have time for a cat nap right now.” 

She doesn’t move. Not yet. “I deserve all the snuggles,” she grumbles. 

“You sure do, but you have a press conference to set-up for, so they’ll have to wait, Madam Communications Director.”

Allison sighs, and unpeels herself from his plaid-covered chest. “How many times do I have to tell you, I’m just an intern?”

He shrugs, giving her a shit-eating grin. “Sure, but you’re the intern who booked this press conference, so . . . nepotism?”

She gives him a little shove, but she’s smiling. “Shut your pie hole and make sure the electricity’s set up for the lights.”

Stiles’s jaw drops in faux outrage. “Excuse you! I’ll have you know I’m the owner of this establishment! You can’t order me around on my own property!” But even as he says it, he’s backing away from her. 

And the cheeky grin on his face tells her that it’s going to be a hell of a day. 

  
  


***** 

Peter Hale shouldn’t even be at work yet. He runs an adult bookstore and sex shop, and most of his customers turn up after dark. It’s that kind of a business. This is . . . well, he doesn’t want to say it’s the shady side of Beacon Hills, but it’s certainly a mix of light industrial and “places you don’t tell your mom about.” Except Peter’s mom, of course. She knows about the place. Hell, she opened the place. Peter was the only kid in his second grade class who, at the end of the story about a bad dragon, wasn’t expecting a big lizard. The store has been a nice enough little earner over the past few years, though Peter’s moved more away from books and DVDs and into toys. You can’t download a dildo. Although Peter is watching 3D printing technology with interest. 

The point is, it’s almost 9 am and Peter shouldn’t be at work, but he really needs to get his taxes sorted out. His accountant, who is also his niece Laura, is tired of him turning up with a carton full of receipts and a bottle of Scotch to bribe her with. Well, she’s probably not tired of the Scotch, but she’s clearly getting sick of lecturing Peter on how to be a better bookkeeper, and how there’s literally no excuse since all he has to do is put numbers in the computer program she made him buy, and . . . Peter is getting sick of her lectures too, and usually tunes out about that time. 

But he’s trying to do better this year and get all his shit in one sock before he hands it over to Laura. So here he is, bright and early, with a coffee in his hand, and he’s going to do the books. Like an _adult_. 

(He’s been here for half an hour and so far all he’s done is check his Insta and leave some kibble out for the stray cat that hangs around in the parking lot, but he’s sure to get to that bookkeeping any second now.) 

He spins in his office chair. 

Any second now. 

His fourth rotation on his office chair brings him into line with the window that looks out over the dirt lot between his place and the landscaping place next door. He anchors his feet on the floor to stop himself, and then peers through the window. 

Why is that weird lanky guy putting up a sound system in the lot? And why does he stop every now and then and double over laughing? 

Peter has been keeping an eye on the lanky guy ever since the landscaping business opened. Their paths sometimes cross when the guy is packing up for the evening and Peter is arriving for work. He’s cute. Way too young for Peter, possibly, but since when has that stopped Peter getting what he wants? 

The guy’s name is Stiles Stilinski. Peter didn’t steal his mail to find that out—a letter was accidentally delivered to his store instead. That’s his story, and he’s sticking with it. 

He met Chris, across the road, the same way. Chris is quiet and serious, right until he gets a few beers under his belt. Then he tells stories about how dead bodies fart. Chris is a mortician. He and Peter have bonded over the fact that they both do the kind of jobs that freak normal people out, but where would society be without them? They honestly just need a couple of sanitation workers to join their crew, and it’ll be perfect. They can play poker and get drunk every week and bitch about how people don’t appreciate the work they do and the necessary services they provide. 

Honestly though, Peter wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s always been bored around regular people.

Maybe Chris would help Peter do his books . . . or at least provide a distraction from them. He must get around to asking. Chris is older than Peter, but since when has that stopped Peter getting what he wants?

Peter’s attention is caught by Stiles in the lot again. He’s grinning and gesturing wildly as he talks to someone on his phone, like he’s having the time of his life out there. Peter can’t imagine why, but then, he also can’t imagine why anyone would want to shovel shit for a living. Mind you, he deals in dick, so he can hardly judge. 

He should probably invite Stiles to join his and Chris’s poker game. The mortician, the sex shop owner, and the shit-shoveller. They could get shirts made up. He gets out of his chair and moves closer to the window, and frowns when he sees the signs plastered over Stiles’s roller door. Argent-Harris 2020? _Really?_

He hadn’t expected Stiles’s love of bullshit to extend to his politics, and he’s vaguely disappointed.

Still. There’s always Chris. And at least he knows Chris doesn’t vote for his father. 

He looks at his desk, walks around it slowly as if that might invoke some kind of magic that will make his bookkeeping disappear, and when it doesn’t work, he goes back to the tried and true method of ignoring it and walking away. He peeks out the doorway of his store, just in time to see— 

Gerard Fucking Argent, standing next to a pile of manure bags with an expression that suggests he’s just stepped in said manure. He looks furious, and Peter can hear the pretty, doe-eyed girl with him saying, “I’m so sorry, Grandpa, I must have made a mistake.” She flutters her eyelashes and Peter would almost be fooled, if he hadn’t seen her fingers crossed behind her back.

He also sees Stiles winking at her behind the old man’s back. Peter’s intrigued now, so he saunters out of his store, and then casually wanders closer to the lot under the guise of checking the signage on the side of his building. He hears Argent sputtering, “This is _not_ what I asked for, Allison.” 

She looks convincingly distressed. “You said the Four Seasons!” 

Gerard glares at the roller door in front of the business. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite work. It’s more of a pained grimace. “I meant the _hotel_ , sweetheart.” 

“I know! As soon as I got here, I realized. But I called them and they’re booked solid,” says the pretty little liar. “Besides, they tweeted that the presser is here and distanced themselves from the whole thing”— _'and you’_ goes unspoken—“so we’d look silly if we changed it now. PR says the best thing we can do is just go with it. And Stiles has been good enough to let us block his entrance all morning.”

As if summoned, long and lanky meanders over and sticks out a hand. “Glad I could provide a fitting setting for the end of your campaign,” he says, eyes sparkling. Argent shakes it like he’s handling one of Peter’s dildos after it’s been out of the packaging for a while. “I like to make my entrance available to anyone who’s interested.”

Peter almost spits his coffee against a sign advertising lube. Okay, perhaps Stiles isn’t a disappointment after all, but a massive goddam troll. And Peter’s always been attracted to assholes. Maybe he’ll introduce himself properly after this, invite Stiles for a drink. Or something.

Peter watches on as Gerard’s lip curls in barely hidden disgust. “I’m sure you do, but if you’ll excuse me, I have some very important business to attend to.” And then he’s striding away like a puffed up peacock to stand at the plywood podium, a man pretending for all he’s worth that there’s nothing unusual about ending his political career surrounded by dirt, death and dildos.

 _Argent’s getting stiffed on all sides_ , Peter thinks with a grin, and settles in to watch.

***** 

Chris gets a text from Allison just after nine. It says ‘ _HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD_ ’ with a winking smiley face. And then: ‘ _look out your window’_. 

Chris has been living above his work since he and Victoria divorced about five years ago. It’s not creepy, despite what people seem to think. The upstairs of the renovated house is actually spacious and modern. It’s just that the downstairs is a memorial chapel and a viewing room, and the basement is . . . best not talked about in polite company, actually. But really, it’s a place of business just like any other. 

And speaking of any other place of business . . .

Chris pads into his kitchen, which overlooks the street, and pulls the curtains aside. 

The parking lot of Four Seasons Total Landscaping is overflowing with people. There are cars parked on either side of the street, and news media vans blocking the street. What the _hell_? There’s never a crowd at Four Seasons. As far as Chris knows, Stiles does a steady trade, but he’s never actually seen the place crowded. 

He looks closer, and . . . is that Allison? And his _father?_

He texts back _‘What did you do?’_

His phone buzzes. ‘ _Four seasons . . . Four Seasons Total Landscaping . . . whoops? I don’t think I'm going to be Grandpa’s intern after today_.’

Chris can feel the grin stretching his face. Allison hadn’t wanted the job to begin with, but there hadn’t been a way to avoid accepting the offer. Still, looks like she managed to get out of it after all. From where he’s watching he can see his father going slightly purple as he hisses at his unfortunate running mate Adrian Harris who nods and scurries away to . . . wait, is that poor bastard moving sacks of manure while dressed in a suit? Yes, yes he is. 

Chris catches sight of Stiles, standing with his arms folded over his chest and grinning, not offering to help move the manure and also not even trying to hide his glee. Allie glances up at the window and waggles her fingers at him, mouthing, ‘happy birthday.”

Chris nods in return, his grin widening, and he can’t help but think that the day’s certainly off to a hell of a good start. He slips on his boots and makes his way downstairs, because some things—his father scowling and muttering next to a pile of shit, or his pretty neighbour in tight jeans for example—need to be appreciated up close and personal.

When he gets outside he sees Peter lurking near the edges of the crowd, and moves in closer. “Hell of a thing to wake up to,” he growls low in his ear, and has the satisfaction of seeing Peter jump a foot in the air. 

“You move like a damn cat, Christopher,” Peter complains, “or some sort of hunter.”

“Yeah?” Chris teases,”you gonna let me hunt you down later?” Because what’s a birthday without a little harmless flirting?

Peter laughs, but that’s not a ‘no’. Interesting. They’ve been circling each other for a while now, and Chris thinks if he made a move, Peter wouldn’t turn him down. He tucks that thought away for later though, because right now there’s the shitshow unfolding in front of them to enjoy, and Chris doesn’t want to miss a second of it.

*****

This might possibly be the best day of Stiles’s entire life. 

When Allie dialled him last night drunk and rambling about her grandpa and the Four Seasons refusing his booking and how it would serve the old man right if she booked Stiles’s garden centre instead, it had been too good an opportunity to pass up. 

“Sure,” he’d said, “let’s do it. Let’s humiliate the old fucker. If nothing else, I could do with the free advertising.”

And now, watching the chaos unfold in front of him, Stiles has never been so glad that drunk-Allie has zero judgement because even though he says so himself, this was a stroke of fucking _genius._

Argent is standing at the dodgy podium framed by a hose and an extinguisher, and his face right now could curdle milk. It’s a beautiful thing. Stiles can just imagine the memes. Hell, there’ll probably be fanfic. 

(There definitely will. Stiles has an AO3 account.) 

There will also be media interest as journalists try to figure out what the hell is happening here. Is Stiles an Argent supporter actually dumb enough to think that Gerard Argent gives a fuck about him and his little landscaping business? Is he a smart guy who knew the campaign had fucked up but decided to go with it anyway for publicity? Or is he—and anyone who knows him won’t need the media to tell them this is the one—a troublemaker, troll and inveterate little shit? 

Yeah, he’s definitely the third one. And proud of it. 

He mostly did this for Allie. She’s his best friend, and she never wanted to work for her grandfather in the first place, but Gerard is a man who makes it impossible to say no. He’d made a few veiled threats about how he could make Allison’s hot dad’s life a misery still, and Allie had folded like a cheap suit. Stiles doesn’t blame her. 

Also, that thing about her dad being hot probably isn’t relevant. 

Anyway, the point is, it’s about damn time that Gerard Argent got a taste of his own medicine. And if that medicine happens to stink like manure, even better. He watches on as Harris lugs the bags of euphemistically named “Animal Enricher” away from the podium, where Stiles had put them earlier for dramatic effect. He’s sweating and cursing and it’s giving Stiles life, honestly. 

Allie sidles up next to him and says quietly, “Don’t look now, but that hot older guy you’re always eyeing up is here.”

“Your dad’s here?” Stiles blurts out, and whoops. He feels his face heating under Allie’s gaze. 

_“Really,_ Stiles?” 

“Shut up,” he mumbles. “He’s really good looking, okay?”

Allie rolls her eyes and huffs out, “You’re so fucking easy.” She’s not wrong, but it's said with affection, not judgement. 

“I just haven't found anyone who can hold my attention,” he says, pretending to have at least some dignity. 

If Allie rolls her eyes any more she’ll give herself a headache. “ _Not_ my dad,” she says. “The hot guy from the sex shop.” 

Stiles doesn’t even bother playing it cool once she says that. There’s no point. He knows he’s a disaster. So he cranes his head to see, and spots Mr. Sex Shop Owner standing over at the edge of the crowd. 

“Oh, hey,” he says, “your dad’s here too. So yeah, that’s both the hot older guys I’m always eyeing up.” He raises his eyebrows at her look. “It’s not my fault your dad grew that beard and awakened things in me.” 

“Please never mention my dad and things inside you in the same breath,” she says, and gives him a shove. Stiles shoves her back, and then they turn their attention to the podium and the pool of reporters gathering around it, who are all muttering to each other. Stiles hears,“Thought it was a _joke”_ and a “is that a _sex shop?_ ” The journalists and camera crews don’t seem upset though—quite the opposite. They’re grinning and snickering, and Stiles can already tell this is going to be the defining incident of Argent’s disastrous campaign, the cherry on the top of his humiliation.

It’s nice to think he’s contributing.

Stiles fondly remembers his fifth grade social studies teacher telling the class that the most important thing they could do for democracy was to exercise their right to vote. It turns out, actually, that the most important thing Stiles can do is be a massive troll. Some people just have greatness thrust upon them, he supposes. 

_Hopefully literally_ , he thinks, stealing another glance at the two hot men that he’s been fantasizing over for probably too long if he wanted to avoid being creepy. But like. The salt and pepper beard. That _neck_. He’s just a mortal boy, it’s not his fault he can appreciate god-like sexiness when he sees it. 

The grin on Allie’s dad’s face makes him wonder if he should go over there and try his luck at coherent mouth-sounds. Historically, he hasn’t had great luck with that, but he’s riding the high of successfully trolling someone who’s earned it a dozen times over, so maybe today’s his lucky day. He might even get brownie points for helping Allie set the whole thing up. 

He sneaks another look, noticing the way Mr. Sex Shop Owner’s jeans cling to thick thighs, and how close he’s standing to Mr. Agent, and thinks, _maybe_. 

*****

“It’s almost cute how he thinks he’s being subtle,” Peter murmurs. 

Chris huffs a laugh. “Compared to how he is usually, this is subtle for him.”

And well, Peter can’t help but be curious. Observation from a distance is all well and good, but it sounds like Christopher has experience of a closer variety. “Oh?” 

Chris snorts. “He’s been my daughter’s,” he gestures to the pretty brunette Peter saw trying to placate Gerard earlier, “best friend for years now. He’s about as subtle as a gun and has a tendency to run at the mouth. Some days I wonder if he knows what a filter is, or if he does, but doesn’t care enough to bother.” 

Peter spends half his professional life nudging red-faced people into admitting why they’re in his store. He much prefers the ones with no filter. Actually, his favourite customers are those who are totally matter-of-fact about why they’re there. The “Oh, yeah, I’m looking for a 12-inch dildo with some real girth. And do you have any anal hooks?” crowd. For a man who works in a sex shop, Peter’s tastes are fairly vanilla, but there’s nothing he respects more than an upfront kinkster. People are weird about sex. They’re also, from what Chris tells him, weird about death. 

Another thing the two of them have in common. 

“Filters are boring,” Peter says. 

“You’re only saying that because he’s cute,” Chris tells him. “You wait until you’ve listened to a three hour tangent about the history of male circumcision, then tell me you think filters are boring.” 

Peter smirks. “If you think a three hour discussion about the history of male circumcision is the oddest conversation I’ve ever been a part of, you really ought to come and work a shift in my store on a Friday night.” 

Chris laughs at that, and the skin around his blue-grey eyes crinkles. “Nah, I like my clients a lot quieter.” 

Peter stares at Stiles again. “And how about your bed partners?” 

“Hmm,” Chris says. “Well, I don’t mind if they’re a little noisy, I suppose.” 

Oh yes. 

Peter likes where this is going. He’s just trying to think of a suitably filthy innuendo when the air is cut with an ear-piercing electronic squeal followed by Gerard clearing his throat into the mic, making the screech of feedback worse. 

“Oh Christ, he’s actually going to speak,” Chris says, his disbelief clear. Gerard has a death grip on a sheet of paper that they can only hope is his long anticipated concession speech. Knowing Gerard though, it’s going to be the exact opposite. 

“Fascist fuck,” Peter mutters, before remembering that he’s standing right next to the guy’s son. 

He darts a look at Chris, to see him nodding with his mouth set grimly. “Yup.”

“Look on the bright side,” Allison says from where she’s sidled up to them, “at least he lost.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” Chris drapes an arm around her shoulders and gives her a squeeze. “Your grandfather standing next to a sack of shit is the best birthday present I could ask for.”

Allie smiles at him, cheeks dimpling. “It’s honestly hard to tell them apart.” _She really is cute as a button_ , Peter thinks. A devious, scheming button. “You can thank Stiles. I was drunk rambling, but he’s the one who went ahead with it.”

“It was too good to pass up,” Stiles says, stepping closer from where he’s been ~~stalking~~ watching them. “Hey, Mr. Argent. Happy Birthday.”

“Peter Hale,” Peter says, inserting himself into the space in front of Chris and sticking his hand out. “Pleased to finally meet you.”

“Stiles. You’re all mine. The pleasure, I mean, not you. Although I wouldn’t mind—fuck, forget I said anything.” Stiles’s cheeks go pink as his grip on Peter’s hand lingers, and Peter doesn't think it’s all embarrassment. 

Peter lets his smirk widen, become filthy. He knows exactly how he looks. He takes a step closer to Stiles. “You should come over to the store sometime,” he purrs, “see if there’s anything that takes your fancy.”

“Pretty sure there’s something that does,” Stiles replies, cheeks getting darker and his mouth hanging open, letting out plumes of steam into the cold air from ruby lips that Peter has definite opinions on. 

Allie throws up her hand and steps away from them as Peter’s gaze locks on Stiles’s. “Nope! I love you Stiles, but I don’t need to be here for this.” She beats a hasty retreat, and Peter’s fairly sure Stiles doesn’t even notice. 

Chris snorts and he taps Peter on the shoulder. “Down, boy.”

Stiles’s mouth snaps shut and he takes stumbling half-step backward. “Shit, sorry, are you two together? I didn’t know.” He ducks his head, clearly embarrassed, and pretends to watch the podium, where Gerard is becoming more and more wound up as he rants about electoral fraud and fake news and the like—his usual bullshit, just dialed up to eleven. 

It’s Chris who says, ”We’re not together, Stiles,” and Peter could swear he sounds disappointed. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, his gaze darting between them quickly. “I . . .” 

“We’re not together,” Peter clarifies, “but we _could_ be, if a certain someone didn’t want to choose.” 

Stiles’s jaw drops. 

So does Chris’s. 

Peter smirks at the pair of them. 

***** 

This is definitely Chris’s strangest birthday. Watching his father’s election campaign collapse right in front of him is a pure delight. Watching it happen in front of bags of shit, between a sex shop and a crematorium, is joyfully surreal on a level that Chris had never even imagined before today, and would certainly never have thought could be topped. 

And then Peter suggested they both sleep with Stiles, together, so that just goes to show that the universe is constantly surprising. Or at least Peter is. And Chris must be crazy—the last in depth conversation he had was with a corpse so yeah, probably—but he’s actually considering it. 

Peter’s hot, and Stiles is hot, and it’s his _birthday_. Why shouldn’t he have his cake and eat it too?

Or suck it. Something like that, anyway.

“Senator Argent!” one of the reporters calls out, and he recognizes her as Lydia, Allie’s old school friend, and possibly girlfriend. Allie hasn’t confirmed it yet, but she tends to blush whenever she mentions her. “Senator Argent, can I get a comment on today’s location?” 

“The . . .” Gerard is red in the face. It’s wonderful. “The importance of supporting local businesses in the community is—” 

“We’re beside a sex shop,” Lydia interrupts. “With a Pride flag in the window. And a trans flag. Does this mean you’re changing your stance on LGBTQ issues, Senator?” 

“I . . .” Gerard gapes like a guppy. “I . . .” 

“I should have put the Leather Pride flag out too,” Peter muses. Stiles chokes on his laughter. “I’m sure I have one somewhere.” 

“Is that what you’re into?” Chris asks, raising his brows. 

“Hmm,” Peter says. “It depends on the partner. I’m not lifestyle, but I've been known to dabble a little.”

Stiles probably doesn’t mean to let out that high pitched whine. Peter grins, a little bit feral and far too fucking attractive. He knows how he looks, if the way his eyes are dancing is anything to go by. “Interested, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “I have some lovely soft cuffs that were just made for you.”

“Got any for me?” Chris asks, half to spare Stiles from having to answer, and half genuine curiosity. 

“I have a leather harness you’d look amazing in,” Peter says, his grin spreading. 

Stiles whines again, hitting a pitch that probably only dogs can hear. He squeaks out, “You’re—we’re really doing this? Cause I’m in if you’re in, but if you’re teasing that’s just cruel.”

Peter turns to Chris and raises an expectant eyebrow. “Well, Christopher?”

Chris hums and takes a step closer. He moves slowly, giving Stiles time to move away if he wants to, but the poor flustered thing just lets Chris grip him by the hips and tug him closer until they’re pressed back-to-chest. “I think,” he husks, knowing Stiles can feel the way he’s starting to harden in his jeans, “that it’s my birthday, and unwrapping you from this flannel would be a great way to celebrate.” 

He’s close enough to feel the eager shiver run through Stiles’s body. 

He meets Peter’s gaze, and returns his smug smile. 

***** 

Stiles takes a deep breath and prays he’s not dreaming—or, that if he is, he doesn’t wake up anytime soon, because he doesn’t want to miss where this goes. Chris is a line of heat against his back, and it’s not just his hands that feel big where they’re curled around Stiles’s hips. He makes the most pleading puppy eyes he’s ever made at Peter, and licks his lips before he mutters, “Please?” 

Peter nods, and looks past him, at Chris. “Your place, you think?” 

“It’s closer.” 

They’ve been ignoring the media circus, and been ignored in return, everyone concerned with other things, but they all turn when they hear a garbled yell, and see the cheap plywood podium collapse on Harris, who had, for some reason, gotten between Argent and the thing just as Argent pounded it angrily with his fist one too many times. Stiles claps a hand over his mouth as he starts to giggle madly, and feels more than he hears Chris chuckle at the sight. Peter gives the biggest shit-eating grin Stiles has ever seen, and then the two of them are guiding him away from the pathetic spectacle and cameras, across the road to the crematorium, which. 

“Um?” 

Chris reaches around him to unlock the door. “I live above the business. It’s nice—the neighbours are quiet, and I never get any noise complaints if I happen to bring a mouthy boy home and fuck him ‘til he wails.” 

Stiles whimpers, because there is no other response to that, thank you very much, and Peter murmurs, “Promises, promises,” as he crowds in behind them on the way in. 

Chris flashes a filthy smirk over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’ll get a turn, too.”

Peter hums as they head up the stairs at the back. “To make him wail, or to get pounded through your mattress?”

Chris shrugs. “It’s my birthday, why not both?”

This is officially the best day ever, and Stiles totally owes Allie a case of wine. 

Maybe they can drink it together while watching Gerard’s career implode all over Twitter, if he’s not too busy with Chris and Peter. Then again, that sounds like fun too. Taking a break from the two older hotties he’s somehow bagged, to glory in Gerard Argent’s sure-to-be-epic crash and burn? 

_Yeah_ , he thinks, moving his arms back so Peter can slide his flannel overshirt off, _best day ever, but tomorrow’s also looking pretty fucking sweet_. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come join [Bunny](https://bunnywest.tumblr.com/),  
> [Winter](https://thisdiscontentedwinter.tumblr.com/), and  
> [Twist](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!


End file.
